‘This is Brooklyn’, I replied, implying a period to our conversation.

Another mumble, something about recently having left jail.

I didn’t get the impression he was telling me because he felt so liberated he had so share, I more got the sense he was attempting any sort of shock factor his dulled cranium could concoct. I just wanted him to scram on back to his coffin. As I began my reading again (ironically some Gloria Steinem essays) I started getting questions about where I was headed. I looked over at dead face and noticed that at some point in the last four minutes he’d started masturbating. I simultaneously noticed we were the only two at that end of the platform. I knew the G train didn’t have the speed or punctuality to save me so I immediately said take care (damn you service industry auto-pilot!) and walked away.

I felt absolutely fine, more irritated for losing my seat. Out of my peripheral I saw someone approaching me and my heart went cold. I glanced over, it was just some other hooded/hatted subway patron, but he stood right inside my space bubble, and the presence was a weight on my chest.

I moved a second time, even more annoyed. But this time I looked down and noticed my hands were shaking. Whether I wanted to allow it or not, that asshole on the platform actually scared me. When the G arrived, one measly stop later I got off and passed by a cop, not thinking ’til much later I could’ve mentioned something. Instead I hurried upstairs back to the living, leaving the whole thing six feet under. I felt a little dead for the rest of the day though.

And then….

The following week, the same time, catching the G train from Greenpoint. I had one of those moments that makes me grind my teeth. At a completely empty subway station, a family of four blindsided me as I entered the station. They took their time swiping their metro card for the whole troop, then spaced themselves loosely enough that I couldn’t get around them to get down the stairs. I missed the train.

I decided Oh well, can’t be mad at a family, human obstacles happen.

I was caught up in my head, thinking about the week prior on the very same platform, when I heard some bickering behind me. I turned around to see the father of the four holding his right hand with his toddler son, and swinging his left hand frantically, gripping a scooter.

‘She said excuse me!’ He yelled toward another (very startled) man. ‘And you’re too busy on your electronics to look up and say you’re sorry!’

This of course happens all the time on the subway. People are consumed by their digital world and tend to slowly bump into each other like two zombies passing in the night. He probably did bump into the other man’s wife. And it would’ve been a justified call-out, but it escalated.

‘I want to punch you in the face!’ The dad started to scream as he lifted his kid up to his tiptoes, trying to use both hands to yell. You’d think his son’s hand would anchor his temper, but he went from defending his family to being a dickhead.

At least he’s not cursing?

‘You’re just some fucking asshole!’ He continued. By this point his wife had come back to retrieve their startled child. The husband hung back and continued berating stunned Mr. iPhone.

I moved toward the end of the platform, exchanging glances with the rest of the train-waiters. I’d walked far enough that I could no longer make out the words, only blips of raised volume, an out-of-tune song.

Finally the dad let up and walked away, holding (I assume) his son’s scooter in the air as he walked down the platform, like it was some kind of trophy. Biggest asshole. From behind me I heard Mr. iPhone yell, ‘I’ve got a size 32 waist and I’m 40 years old!’

Mr. iPhone ended up getting into my car, and for our shared two stops he was mumbling and smiling, his teeth bared the whole time. We both exited at the Metropolitan stop, and he immediately began scouring the car windows until he found old dad. But the doors had closed, the train was crawling away, and the dad hadn’t even looked up, he was standing in a loose circle with his family, lost in his own bubble.

So maybe I need more than a fragile bubble, how about a sheet? It’s getting cold, I could use the layers. So I cover up, dive into a book for hours, miles. I’ve grown to love local rides, they’re slow but sparsely occupied, takes some pressure off my sheet. That is until a knife rips through it, the one thrown at a frightened bystander after a lackluster spat between her and a bully in a bright blue coat. People with nothing to do. Bright blue projects through the narrow car, shaking everybody’s seats for no good reason, just to roar nonsense. Now everyone’s upset, and the air is swamped with tension. I drink some water out of nervous habit, it helps a little. 

It’s the person with the tilted chin, angled in the air. Wide eyes, haloed by eyebrows forming a pointed crown. The actual noise comes second, it’s the loud postures and gestures that end up pinning you to the subway seat. The people who throw their limbs around like it’s their living room.

It’s either that, or people far too tired to speak. Sunken, ready to trek home. The whole city sitting on their eyelids. It used to frighten me, how tired people seemed riding home at all hours of the day, but now it’s become comforting, some of the best quiet I can find. The only way to get New York to shut up is to tire it, and even then, there’s still always a chin peeking toward the car ceiling, warning loudly as the subway screeches to a halt at your heels.

I look up from Howard Zinn’s plead for a well-rounded understanding or US history, to a woman holding an orangina and a set of keys, asking for Greek magic. I assumed she wanted me to pop the top off, but I shrugged with my shoulders and eyes to signify a.) No can do. b.) I’m reading, thanks.

“We need some kind of frat boy, he’d know,” the woman said to her son.

She began to tap it, like a helpless attempt at sparking fire with twigs, ’til a nice man handed over his key-chain bottle opener. The woman snatched it like a life-line and gave her son some citrus refreshment on a shitty humid day. Subway hospitality saves the day.

“Come again?” He said, simultaneously moving in one hasty swoop to her side.

She repeated the question.

“Oh, I made it, actually,” He replied, pulling it out so they could both read the odd, quaint yet grammatically crude T shirt.

There’s a giant chance he was lying, but if not, how absolutely perfect was that moment for that man? How long has he unknowingly waited for such a golden opportunity? For a stunning woman by chance to notice his shirt, like it, and release the question into the air like an enticing scent. She just perched herself like a hot fresh pie in the window, and proceeded to throw a fork right at his forehead, marking him with a question. He saw the window, and sat right next to her, and even got to let her know how creative he is. It was just like the beginning of a fairly tale, or a romantic comedy. She got off at the next stop.